by Glenn Trust
“Can’t say that I ever have.” She peered into the dark as if the bird might come up to the porch and reveal itself.
“Brown little nothing of a bird,” Fel said, leaning back in the old kitchen chair. “Sits in the leaves under the trees all day. They look like the leaves. You could step on one in the woods, if they’re on the nest. They just sit there all the day long, waitin’ for the night.”
“On the ground?”
“Yep. On the ground. Oh, they’ll come out at night, huntin’ some tasty moth or bug. Then they fly up in the trees and watch for supper…and they sing out to each other.”
The bird called again, louder now, fully awake.
“It sounds sad,” Sharon said. “Melancholy.”
“Maybe.” Fel sat listening, waiting for the next call. “Me, it don’t sound sad so much as he’s lettin’ the world know he’s here. Day’s gone. Night is his time, and he’s gonna sing his call and to hell with everyone goin’ to sleep.”
“I like that.” Sharon smiled. “I like that way of thinking about it.”
Listening to them talk, George felt quiet. Not so much peaceful, just quiet. He liked hearing Sharon and Fel talk.
Sharon looked at George, seated to her right in his own kitchen chair, the one he sat in every night. “How’d it go, with Sandy?”
“Okay, I suppose. He wouldn’t accept my resignation.”
“No?”
“No. He made me take a leave of absence. Said I would be back when everything blew over.”
“Well, maybe he’s right.” She reached out and put her hand on his arm letting it rest there, not expecting anything in return, just being there.
“Maybe.” George shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
Fel leaned forward in the chair so he could see George in the dim light coming through the window onto the porch. “What are you talkin’ about, George? What do you mean resigned? You not a deputy any more?””
“Not now, Fel.” George gave a small shrug resigning himself to the possibility. “Maybe never.”
“This about that bullshit investigation Klineman got goin’? About killin’ that man?”
George nodded. “It is.”
“And you got to resign?”
“Leave of absence,” George said.
“Same thing, goddamnit.” Fel was annoyed. “You’re sayin’ that ‘cause you killed that murderin’ son of a bitch up in the mountains that you can’t be a deputy no more?”
George was silent. The answer was too complicated. The right or wrong of it was hard for him to see or tell about. It was what happened. That was all. What seemed right then, what needed to be done then, wasn’t clear at all now, sitting on the porch listening to the whippoorwill.
Sharon spoke up. “They haven’t said that, Fel. It’s an investigation. It might lead to nothing.”
George looked at her but remained silent. Things didn’t lead to nothing. They always led to something.
“Sons of bitches,” Fel said. “God damned sons of bitches.” He spoke each word separately, giving emphasis to what he thought about the whole thing.
They sat quietly again, the full dark coming on now, listening to the whippoorwill call at the edge of the woods.
After some minutes, Fel spoke again. “Well, by God, I had thought tonight was the night to do it. Then you talk about resigning, and I think, well hell, tonight’s not the night to do it. Then I sit here with you two all quiet, and I think, yes, tonight is the night to do it.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Fel?” George looked across Sharon to the old man in the dark.
“This.” Reaching in his back pocket, Fel pulled out an envelope. It was folded in half and curved as if he had been sitting on it for days. He handed the envelope to Sharon.
“What is it?” George asked.
Opening the envelope, Sharon pulled out three pieces of paper completely filled with Fel’s crooked handwriting. She read through the first page, and began shaking her head, wiping a tear from her eye as she went to the second page.
“What is it, for heaven’s sake?” George took the first page from her lap. Squinting in the dim light from the window, he began reading.
They read all three pages while Fel sat looking out into the night. Periodically, they would raise a hand to their eyes and wipe at a tear that blurred the writing on the page.
George handed the last page back to Sharon. “Fel, we can’t…”
“Hush up, George Mackey.”
“But Fel,” Sharon tried to pick up where George had been cut off. They felt the same.
“You too, little girl. You hush up, both of you. It’s not for you to say. It’s for me to say.” Now his old weathered hand wiped at the tear in his eye. “Since Colleen was taken I have lived a lonely life. That was twenty years ago. Then you came along, George and you were…well, you were a friend and kind of like a son.” He reached out and patted Sharon’s hand with his rough old dry one. “And then you came along.” He smiled at her. “The lady GBI girl. You did somethin’ for George…and for me.” Fel took a deep breath trying to control the tremor in his voice. “I guess what I’m sayin’ is you two are my family, all the family I got. It’s the right thing to do. It’s what I want to do. If Colleen was here, she would agree.”
“But…”
“I told you once, George Mackey. Hush up. It’s done. I had my lawyer in Everett fix up the papers, and I signed ‘em. That letter there is just my way of sayin’ some things to you that I guess I’d have a hard time sayin’ out loud. Somehow it’s easier on paper. When I go the place is yours…hell, it’s yours now.” He smiled at them. “Long as I can stay that is, just ‘til I go meet up with Colleen.”
Leaning over, Sharon put her arms around the old man’s neck. “I love you, Fel Tobin. Not for this, not for the farm.” She looked around, shook her head, and then held up the wrinkled papers Fel had labored over, writing out his feelings for them. “For this, for being who you are, for what you said.” She kissed his face, her wet cheek lingering on his leathery stubble until he raised his arm and held her close.
Eyes wet, gleaming with little points of reflected light in the dark, George watched them. He could say nothing. The words wouldn’t come. They understood.
In her seat between the two men, Sharon put a hand on the arm of each. Her touch was the glue binding them together, making them whole. They sat quietly, not speaking, understanding everything that remained unspoken.
For George, something else was there too, hanging darkly over them. There on the porch, secure, anchored by Sharon’s touch and the feelings they shared, he could not fight back the dread and the heaviness that had settled in his heart. Would all of this be gone, lost just at the moment it was discovered because of one shot fired in the mountains.
Seated in the old kitchen chairs on the porch, they did what people do in the dark. They reached out to each other seeking comfort and contact, the two men holding Sharon’s hands.
The whippoorwill called again. It was answered immediately by a second from the trees on the far side of the house. The birds were unconcerned with the people on the porch. They did what whippoorwills do. They called to each other in the dark
End
Blood Reckoning
Glenn Trust
The Hunters Series
Book 4
Dedication
For Julie, thank you.
1. Perfect Time of Day
It was the perfect time of day. Across the salt marshes, the eastern horizon glowed cherry red. Beyond the marshlands and barrier islands, a shiny sliver of water sparkled at the point where the sky met the ocean.
He rested against the hood of his car watching the sunrise for the moment it would show the top of its fiery head. It pleased him, the anticipation, waiting for that split second when it was visible for the first time that day.
A sultry breeze swayed the saw grass that stretched across the miles of marsh to the shore. Completely content in the mo
ment, he sipped a cup of coffee from a convenience store on I-95. The warmth of the engine through the sheet metal warmed his backside where he leaned against the car. It was a pleasant sensation in the early morning. This close to the Atlantic, the night breeze blowing out towards the water was brisk and fresh, even in mid-summer. Once the sun was up, the wind would change and blow in from the ocean providing relief from the coastal heat. He knew this from experience, not education. This was his home. He had roamed the tidal marshes and shores of Georgia and Florida most of his life.
His reverie was interrupted by the deep-throated roar of a motorcycle pulling off the interstate into the rest area. The man straddling the seat was long-legged; his knees bent high even with the bike’s seat pushed far back from the foot pegs. Behind him, a girl nestled close, arms around his waist, her head leaning against his shoulder as if she were napping as they rode. He noted her full breasts pushed against the biker, the soft, curving bulge from the side of her tank top. He smiled.
The Harley pulled in and stopped a few spaces away, closer to the building and restrooms. The rider cut the rumbling engine abruptly, and the sudden silence was a heaviness that deadened his hearing. Gradually, other sounds replaced the engine’s roar. The gentle rush of the blowing breeze and the traffic droning on the highway brought things back to peaceful, humming normality.
The two got off the motorcycle and stretched. As he had thought, the rider was tall, at least six feet five. He walked into the restroom ignoring the man drinking coffee, watching the eastern sky.
The girl bent over, touching her toes, stretching the kinks out and then stood up, throwing her arms back wide, yawning. He observed with deep interest as the fabric of the tank top pulled tight across her breasts, showing nipples erect in the cool pre-dawn air.
She caught his eye watching her and smiled. “Morning.”
“Morning.”
“Nice view.” She turned and looked from the rest area towards the east. The sky was changing from cherry red to fiery orange as the sunrise approached.
“Yep, it is.” His eyes met hers and he lifted his cup of coffee in a toast to the view, her chest and the rising sun.
With another smile, she flipped her sandy hair over her shoulder and walked to the restrooms. He gave a final look of appreciation at the jeans pulled tight over the curves of her bottom and turned his eyes back to the east. The appointment would be arriving soon. He wanted to see the sun make it above the horizon first.
The bike rider exited the restroom, pulled a cell phone from his pocket and walked further away from the man by the car. The phone at his ear, he paced in a circle in the parking lot speaking softly.
The girl came from the restroom and looked around. Seeing the biker on the phone, she shrugged and walked across the rest area to a fence that marked the boundary. She stood there leaning against it looking over the marshes towards the brightening eastern sky. The man at the car smiled and sipped his coffee. It was a double feature, her smooth round ass under the tight denim and the multi-colored sky.
The arc of the sun flamed suddenly above the horizon. Blazing rays shot up through the sky, intensely bright, after the predawn dusk. The two watchers squinted and shaded their eyes with their hands. The man at the car pulled the sunglasses on top of his head down onto his nose. They smiled at the light, savoring the sudden warmth of it on their faces.
A van pulled off the interstate into the rest area and parked two spaces away from the small car. Lettered on the side of the van was ‘Sylvester Plumbing - Campo, Florida’. A phone number with an 863 area code was stenciled in smaller letters underneath. There were pictures of a pipe wrench and faucet to either side of the lettering.
The driver got out, nodded at the man by the car and walked to the restrooms. When he returned a few minutes later, he found the man still leaning against his vehicle watching the dawn through his sunglasses.
“Any problems?” Sunrise Man spoke without turning his head from the view.
“Nope.” Van Man stood between the two vehicles, waiting.
The sun slid completely above the horizon, its light blazing across the marshes and the rest area, spotlighting everything standing vertical. The people, the vehicles, the motorcycle, even the blades of saw grass in the marsh threw long, dark shadows across the ground. Beside the restroom building, a brown thrasher on its nest in some box hollies began chattering its warning clicks and squawks at the intruding light, as if it could make the sun recede back below the distant curve of the earth.
“Well, let’s get to it.” Sunrise Man turned from the dawn and walked to the other, still standing between the two vehicles.
Both reached in their pockets for the keys to their respective rides. Making the exchange, they nodded. Appointment kept, it was time to hit the road.
The system of courier relays was efficient. One would take the plumber’s van and its cargo another day’s drive north; the other would return south for another shipment. They might see each other on the next trip, or not again for months. It all depended on how the rotations went and whether they were headed north or west next time up the road. The schedule was driven by business.
“That’ll do boys.” The tall biker held a handgun pointed somewhere between the two men, ready to fire a round into either if they gave him a reason. Backlit by the sun, his face was a dark shadow.
Sunrise Man squinted through his dark glasses at the form of the biker. Wondering if he should, but unable to stop himself, he reflexively reached behind him for the butt of the gun in his waistband.
“I wouldn’t.” The girl in the tank top leaned over the car from the passenger side. She held a small semi-automatic pistol in a two-handed grip, pointing it at his head.
“Shit. I shoulda known.” He shook his head in wry disappointment at being taken so easily. “Nice gun for a little girl.” He recognized it as a Walther PK, a distinctive gun, light and easier for a girl to conceal than Biker Man’s big-framed Beretta. The bore was small, probably a .32 caliber. “Can you really shoot that thing?”
“You wanna find out?” She tightened her grip, sighting it into the man’s eyes.
“No. I reckon not.” He brought his hand slowly from behind his back, empty.
Van Man said nothing. Pale, afraid to move, he waited, obviously worried about what might come next.
He didn’t have long to wait. A large crew cab pickup pulled into the rest area and stopped at the two vehicles. Three men jumped out. While the biker and the girl held Sunrise Man and Van Man at gunpoint, the men from the pickup took their keys, bound their hands with heavy zip ties and shoved them into the back of the van, cinching more plastic ties around their ankles. It was crowded inside, the van’s cargo taking up most of the space. The bound men were pushed tightly against each other, barely able to breathe. Moving was impossible.
One of the men from the pickup climbed behind the wheel of the van and turned the engine over. The girl seated herself in the car, tossing the pistol on the passenger seat. A few seconds later, both vehicles followed the pickup from the rest area. It had taken less than two minutes to overpower and secure the couriers in the back of the van and disappear onto the interstate.
Biker Man stood watching them leave then walked calmly to the Harley. He gave a last look around. The rest area was awash in the light of the rising sun. They had picked the spot carefully. Early on a Sunday morning, traffic was light. Located on a deserted stretch of the interstate, drivers rarely stopped for the night here. Truckers preferred the major truck stops and the amenities further along the interstate.
Had anyone been there, Biker Man’s final task would have been to eliminate witnesses that made the unlucky decision to stop at the rest area. There were none. That was fortunate. Eliminating witnesses was always the messiest, and riskiest, part of an operation.
He took the helmet off the bike’s seat, pulled it onto his head and gunned the Harley’s engine. Accelerating quickly, he was doing seventy-five when he reached the bottom of
the ramp and merged onto the interstate.
The rest area was silent. The brown thrasher had ceased its chatter, finally convinced that it could not force the yellow-orange orb back into the ocean. The flaming rays of the sun were rising now, completely above the horizon. In a few minutes, the security cameras mounted on the building would be able to record images again. Unable to automatically close the lens irises sufficiently to reduce the light, they were blinded each new day for a few minutes by the bright onslaught of the sun. The video recordings were always whitewashed and unusable while the sun burned into the camera’s lens. It was a minor security flaw but not considered a significant one. This was a quiet rest stop. Besides, it was the perfect time of day…for a kidnapping.
2. The Diplomat
The soft sand of the Playa Azul sank under the big man. He let his feet drag with each step, enjoying the texture and warmth of the powder on his skin. His companion watched, always amazed at the delicate grace of one so bulky. But then, Roy Budroe never failed to surprise him, and he had learned through hard and deadly lessons not to underestimate him.
Ramón Guzman was younger, more athletic, and still found it difficult to keep up with Budroe as they strolled the Blue Beach, named for the color of the water, not the sand. They were alone. It was not a place for tourists and Budroe’s men, a mix from the Cuban and Puerto Rican underworlds of Miami and San Juan, kept a wide, clear perimeter around them while they walked. No one argued when the hard-eyed men told them to move. The Patron wanted the beach to himself.
A fisherman down the strand saw them approach and gathered in his nets to move further away. He was familiar with Budroe’s walks along the shore, morning and evening. A teenage boy with a surfboard came out of a clump of palms to the shore, saw one of Budroe’s men stop and look at him and then turned and disappeared back into the canopy. There would be time for surfing later.